“Let us drink to the memory of the Glorious Dead, Théoden King and all our forefathers who fell fighting with honour! All hail”

“All hail!” the assembly echoed with one voice.

Faramir’s cheeks flushed with shame. His father had died an ignominious death unlike the fathers of his companions. Even as Théoden had fallen upon the field, Denethor had ignited his own pyre.

Aragorn’s kindly gaze fell upon him.

Later that evening Éomer sat alone with his guests.

“You have restored the honour of your House,” Aragorn told his Steward.

“I have wrought no great deeds.” Faramir stared fixedly at the fire.

“Who resisted the Ring and helped the Hobbits? Who braved the Nazgûl might? Who gave Gondor into my safekeeping and is rebuilding Ithilien anew? Whose wisdom helps me govern wisely?” Aragorn smiled at his Steward, needing no answers to his questions.

“And who healed my sister’s heart and brought her happiness?” said Éomer. “Why, you of course, Faramir!”